Thursday, March 10, 2016

Charles Simic (b.1938)

Private Eye

To find clues where there are none, That's my job now, I said to the Dictionary on my desk. The world beyond My window has grown illegible, And so has the clock on the wall. I may strike a match to orient myself

In the meantime, there's the heart Stopping hush as the building Empties, the elevators stop running, The grains of dust stay put. Hours of quiescent sleuthing Before the Madonna with the mop

Shuffles down the long corridor Trying doorknobs, turning mine. That's just little old me sweating In the customer's chair, I'll say. Keep your nose out of it. I'm not closing up till he breaks.